


The Misadventures of James Bondage and Agent 00-Sex, Angel Intelligence Agency Agents

by lysanatt



Category: Supernatural
Genre: AU, AU: angels exist, BDSM, CBT, Cock & Ball Torture, Community: salt_burn_porn, M/M, Murder, No crack, Past Alastair/Dean Winchester, Safe Sane and Consensual, Sounding, Wing Kink, autassassinophilia, rape attempt mentioned
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-23
Updated: 2016-04-23
Packaged: 2018-06-03 22:47:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6630070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lysanatt/pseuds/lysanatt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean has been an agent for the US Angel Investigation Agency for a decade, and he's been asked to do a lot of strange things in the name of the service. Going undercover at a BDSM club to catch a murderer, playing the sub for some Dom guy the Agency dug up over at MI6 is not one of them. Until now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Misadventures of James Bondage and Agent 00-Sex, Angel Intelligence Agency Agents

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 24hr Salt-Burn-Porn challenge (24 hours from tag to finished fic) and the prompt _choking on their halos_. ~~Due to the nature of the challenge, the fic has not yet been beta'd.~~

**The Misadventures of James Bondage and Agent 00-Sex, Angel Intelligence Agency Agents**

"You're joking?" One eyebrow shoots up as Dean glares at his friend. Unfortunately said friend is also his boss and, thus, he has to consider the, erm, offer.

"Do I look like I'm joking?" Crowley leans back in the elaborate office chair, an innocent expression on his face. As innocent as it can be, what with Crowley being a demon and all.

"Why they put you in charge of AIA is a constant riddle to me," Dean sighs. "I knew you'd use it against me one day."

"Oh, sweetheart," Crowley drawls. "You know why. The Angel Investigation Agency was shot to hell because they'd put—" Crowley leans forward before he bellows, "a fucking _angel_ in charge of an intelligence service investigating angels!" 

Dean raises his hands in surrender. "All right, all right. I didn't hire Director Metatron; I hate him as much as you do. But how is it that you think you can make me use my—" He pauses, unwilling to say the words aloud. Yeah, so Crowley knows, but that doesn't mean that he can use it to make Dean agree to the, frankly, appalling suggestion. Crowley's got a point, though. The former AIA boss, the disgraced Metatron, would never sink so low as to use Dean's sexuality and kinks in an investigation. No. He would. That had been the problem. Metatron had been an incompetent, opportunistic bastard. At least Crowley is a competent, opportunistic bastard.

"Listen, I can't bloody well send anyone in there, Dean. It'd scare half of the little boys and girls out there, and make the rest hand in their resignations." Crowley waves in the general direction of the offices down the hall. You have skills they don't."

Yeah, if by skills Crowley means 'the need to get on his knees for an angel, begging to be hurt and taken', then Crowley is right. Dean is, however, very sure it wasn't in the job description when he signed up to be an agent for the angelic security service.

"It's our scene, Dean. I can't in good conscience send anybody else in there to investigate. The police is going to bugger it up, and..." Crowley sighs. "I have ordered Balthazar to stay away as well. My boy... he's defenseless."

'Defenseless' isn't exactly what comes to mind when Dean thinks of Crowley's angelic husband. But Balthazar would be at risk, even though he's an agent too. Dean knows, because he's seen what kind of slutty sub Balthazar is, willing to get on his knees for pain and pleasure alike. Yeah, he'd throw himself at anyone, demon, angel, murderer, just to get off. If Crowley didn't get off on seeing Balthazar get fucked by other men, Dean would feel sorry for him. Balthazar slutty desires, though, are the reason that Crowley knows about Dean's desires, since it had been Balthazar's exhibitionist streak that had made Crowley take him to a BDSM club to show him off, naked and begging for it.

Dean snorts at the thought. There's nothing like meeting one's boss in a club. Dean had been half-naked at the time. Crowley had been wearing leather all over, and with a tied up Balthazar balancing on his balls. Didn't make it better that Dean was on his knees, collared and with demon dick so far down his throat it was rubbing his prostate. Good thing was that it had ruined his sort-of-relationship with Alastair; the man had been an idiot, but damn, he could use a whip. Dean shudders at the thought, both out of disgust and arousal. Alastair had had trouble with the concept of consent and Dean had been about to ditch him anyway, since he wasn't what Dean had been looking for in the first place. And when Alastair had been two inches from turning into a rapist, Dean had kicked him in the nuts and decked him one that he'd remember. He'd flashed his badge at the same time as Crowley, and they'd dragged Alastair to cool off in Hell for an indefinite amount of time.

Dean is pulled out of his thoughts by a loud cough from Crowley.

"Let me know if I'm boring you, darling."

"No. Sorry." Dean sends Crowley a cheeky grin. "I was just thinking about the first time I met you. Outside work, I mean."

"Dirty little boy," Crowley bites. "I know I'm hot, but keep your thoughts off me; I am all Balthazar's."

"Yeah, you wish." Dean likes Crowley, but he'd never thought of Crowley like that and they both know it. Also, Balthazar would kill anyone who as much as thought weirdly about his man. Crowley was sub-whipped to a ridiculous degree, if being in love was ridiculous. "So, what's the deal? Why do I have to embarrass myself and come out to the world as a gay dominance-craving sub? I assume I'm not going in alone? Not that I'm actually embarrassed."

"Because someone has been killing subs in high-end angel sex clubs for a few months." Crowley makes a smirk that more than anything shows how it intrigues him. Demons. "Four victims by now. All choked to death with their own halos. Imagine that. Kept under the radar because you wouldn't believe the number of influential and interesting people present at those clubs."

Oh, Dean would believe. Seeing that he was a member of a similar club, he had no problem imagining.

"President," Crowley coughs. "He was there when the killings happened. Four murders. We think there's a pattern. There's a chance that we might catch the killer when he strikes next if we follow where it leads."

This time, Dean raises both eyebrows. " _The_ president? Michael Alighieri? Are you kidding me?" That was truly surprising. The first angel president the US had was frequenting a high-end BDSM club?

"I am never kidding." Crowley shoves a folder across the desk. "We think the murderer might strike Michael's club the next time; he confirmed that he was a guest at the first crime scene, and he put a lid on everything, sensibly. We are not sure how the killer gets in; all the clubs have screening processes, state of the art security systems and the best staff to handle things. Either it's a conspiracy, or there's somebody almost as powerful as little old me going through subs like Balthazar goes through Champagne. With a less lethal outcome, of course. 

"Yeah, Balthy is a true humanitarian." Dean refrains from rolling his eyes. Instead he points at the file. "I'll read it later. Fill me in."

"Killer's been targeting angel subs, no humans or demons. Other than that, we haven't been able to establish what they might have in common. If they do have anything in common, other than being angel subs. Killer's been to The Dungeon, Eden, Furnace, Sodom and Gomorrah and—"

"Heaven and Hell is next, right? Sadly, it was never Gomorrah and Sodom, to keep with the pattern, but what the hell. Murderer won't let little details like that stand in the way."

"Nothing eludes you, does it?" Crowley sends Dean a wry smile. "He is, if nothing else, not subtle. Arrogant. Too sure of himself. I like it. The Alphabet Murders," Crowley points out, underlining every word with the move of a hand, like it could make them appear magically in the air.

Dean has heard about Heaven and Hell, everybody in the scene has. "And how's he supposed to get to Heaven unless he's a member already? It's not done." No, it's not. Angel security, warded like there's no tomorrow, only for the select few.

"And yet. We could ask the President for more information, but we'd rather he didn't know we are going in undercover."

"Yeah?" There's that. If the killer got into all those clubs, all of them sane and safe and secure... Maybe it was the Pres who had gone mad, starting to kill lesser angels? Then again he'd only been at the first crime scene? "So?" Dean asks, one eyebrow raised.

"So?"

"Backup? You're not going to send me in there with just anyone, are you? I mean..." Dean's not sure what he means. Firstly, his partner has to be someone who can actually blend in, or someone who is already a member, one they are one hundred percent certain isn't involved in the murders. And it needs to be someone who can fake it well enough to be taken for a Dom, one good enough to convince the other members. There's also the small problem that Dean probably will have to give himself over to this person for the night, trusting that he or she knows what they're doing. "Who?"

"We outsourced, to be sure we got someone who's not involved. MI6."

"What? They're sending us some kind of James Bondage? So I'm gonna be Agent 00-Sex?" Dean can't stop himself. "Seriously?"

This time Crowley laughs. "No, and you can ditch your dirty fantasies about James Bond. Their man's a wet job specialist, license to kill, yes, but far from the hot piece of arse you're imagining right now. He's one of the guys our esteemed British counterpart sends when they have to... dispose of the really, really tough guys. Apart from your own tough self, I doubt you could find anyone better to accompany you."

So it's a he. That's something, at least. And he's deadly and dangerous. Dean squirms involuntarily. "How's he going to get us in? In Heaven, I mean."

"See that's the beauty. He _is_ into BDSM, baby. No pretending. He lives here in Chicago most of the year. He's already a member of Heaven and Hell, but he's been on an assignment in Afghanistan, so we know for sure he was occupied elsewhere, or he'd been a good suspect."

Oh. "A real honest to god Dom?" Dean suddenly finds himself wanting it to be so. He's not sure how it'll pan out if the man turns out to be a sub. One of them would have to pretend, but at least they'd both know what to do and how to do it.

"Most certainly. I don't think you'll have reason to feel dissatisfied." Pressing a finger demonstratively to the intercom, Crowley smirks a smirk to end all smirks. 

Fuck. Crowley wouldn't be like that if he didn't know he'd just pulled something—somebody—out of the hat who's ticking all Dean's boxes. Dean can't stop himself from moving restlessly on the chair. It has been so long and the mere thought of a competent, strong Dom is enough to make him squirm.

"Meg, would you please send in Lord Richings?" Crowley purrs into the microphone. "Agent Winchester is _dying_ to meet him.

Dean gasps, much to Crowley's amusement. Lord Richings? God almighty! Yeah, MI6 sure is sending their best man. Lord Richings is legendary in the business; a lord turned agent for the queen and the empire. Nicknamed _Death_ for his abilities, there is no one like him, nobody as lethal and efficient when it comes to killing the enemies of the British empire.

Dean looks at Crowley, not knowing what to say.

"Enjoy," Crowley says, smug and almost gleeful. "As I recall, 'deadly and dangerous' really turn you on, so keep in mind that you are on an assignment here."

Dean realizes that words don't matter. There is nothing to say other than he will get back at Crowley for springing this on him. At the first opportune moment, he's going to _kill_ Crowley for this!

*

Lord Richings is nothing like Dean had expected, and yet, he's exactly like it.

Death stares at Dean, cold brown eyes in a gaunt, but not entirely unattractive, face. "You know what you've said yes to?"

Dean cocks his head, studying Death with curiosity. The guy's by no means unassuming; he exudes power, but subtly, like he knows he doesn't have to show off; he doesn't need to. "If you mean whether I know how to act like your sub, then yeah. I know."

"Hm." Death stares at Dean again, like he's some unappealing insect. "Director Crowley, please leave us."

"Wha—" Dean starts, but is cut off immediately.

"Quiet, boy." The order is whipped out in a low tone, neither sharp, nor loud. "You speak when I tell you to speak." 

Dean shuts his mouth immediately, by pure instinct, then opens it again. "The hell I—"

This time a look is enough. "Agent Winchester, you informed me in no uncertain terms that you were an experienced sub. Behave like one."

The swift, sharp order hits Dean like a shot of aphrodisiac. He is not sure he likes it, but if that is how it goes, Dean knows how to play. He is not sure he knows how to play with Death, but he's gonna try. "Yes, Master." Dean hopes he's addressing Death properly, not that he should care, but they are going to work together after all, and somehow it feels... right. Death expects a sub, Dean is one, how hard can it be?

"Thank you. I am so pleased that you are actually able to understand an uncomplicated command. You may call me Master, or M'Lord until told otherwise."

Dean snorts, glaring at Death, just about to give him his uncensored opinion on how much he's able to understand. He's a sub, not an idiot.

Crowley gets up from his deep office chair, beaming at them with enough false enthusiasm to light up a dungeon. "Oh, good! I see you'll get along splendidly. I'll go have a meeting with Balthazar, in case you need me."

"That won't be necessary," Death states. "Agent Winchester and I will come to an understanding."

"Well, then. Ta. Be here tomorrow at nine for further briefing," Crowley says, shutting the door behind him. It looks very much as if Crowley is fleeing.

 _Thanks, Boss,_ Dean thinks, sighing deeply. This is probably not going to turn out too well.

Death sighs and leans heavily on a silver-headed cane. The man has a goddamn cane, for Christ's sake! "You're a sub, Agent Winchester? Not just someone who read about it in a book? An experienced sub?"

Dean nods, for once choosing not to reply in words. 

"I understand that you have no reason to trust me, not yet," Death says, taking a few steps in the direction of Crowley's desk. He walks with a slight limp. Maybe he's been hurt in the line of duty. Death sinks down into the chair. "I am inclined to help Director Crowley find this killer of yours. Despite my reputation, I am usually not fond of murder, and I most certainly disapprove of people murdering the subs who are ours to protect. If I agree to take you with me to my club, there will be... expectations."

Dean nods again. He assumes that by _ours_ , Death means Doms. Yeah, that makes sense. Somehow. "But you and I... We are both murderers." Dean makes a grimace. He knows there is a difference, although there really isn't, between killing the enemy and... standard murder. On the bottom line, they are both murderers, he and Death, but they'd never be able to do their jobs if they ever thought about it like that. They kill monsters, uphold the natural order, whatever lame excuse gets them through the day. "The killer used their own halos to strangle them. It's—"

Death nods this time. They both understand, Dean is sure, how this travesty, this distorted version of what should be a loving, caring relationship between a sub and his Dom is more than a murder to them; it's a mockery of what they are. It's personal.

"It won't be a chore for me to act as your sub," Dean says, just to get it out there. "I've been on my knees more times than I can count and I like it." He presses his lips together, wanting to say more, but finds that he can't.

"You are worried about something, boy. Speak up." Death waves Dean closer, clearly expecting him to obey. Death knows his metier. It's like he senses Dean's reluctance, knowing that a direct order might help Dean to say what needs to be said. 

It does. "It's been a while," Dean says. "Didn't end well." His face contracts in disgust at the thought of Alastair. "There was a problem with consent."

Death looks even more disgusted. "I see. We will not encounter that sort of problem, I assure you. I will need a list of your hard and soft limits before tomorrow. Safeword?"

"Colt." Dean lets out a deep breath.

"Colt. Good. And now the other reason."

"I—"

"Do not play me for a fool, boy! Or there will be consequences." 

Death's expression turns icy and Dean forces himself not to react to it, not to reach down and cover his hardening cock. Fuck, he's worse than one of Pavlov's dogs, drooling over this guy, or rather over the confidence and superiority with which he acts. Death is pushing all Dean's buttons and he doesn't even know it.

"I'm— It's, erm—"

"Very eloquent." Death leans the cane against the desk before he sits back again, simply looking at Dean, waiting.

"I don't like mixing business with pleasure this way. It's going to be hard for me to separate them." Dean's not sure he makes sense. "Danger, real danger, is a turn on, okay?"

"And not the kind of danger where an irresponsible Dom turns himself into a rapist and refuses to stop when you use your safeword."

"No," Dean admits, looking Death in the eye. Fuck, he needs it so badly. "The kind of danger you represent. Knowing what you could do to me if you wanted. Kill. The rush of being on a case at the same time... it's not..."

"Everybody could do that to you," Death says. "Pushed hard enough, everybody's a killer. But I see what you mean. I wish I could promise you that it'll be business before pleasure, but the club rules might prevent that; seeing that I've been overseas for a while, the members might expect a performance. A scene. And you cannot fake that; these people know what to look for. To be convincing, it has to be real. We could have the killer watching us."

"It's okay," Dean says. "It's fine." It's not the first time Dean's had to stretch his comfort zone, and submitting to a man he doesn't know during a murder investigation, letting him do to him what he likes, definitely is a stretch. An arousing stretch, considering Dean's danger-kink. "Yeah, it's fine."

"Is it?" Death almost whispers, voice deep and velvet. "You don't know what I'm capable of, boy. I am already looking forward to hear you scream when you find out."

Dean's sure he's about to come in his pants. So _fine_ might not be the right word to use.

*

Dean's staring out the window into the dark streets. He can barely look at Death. Lord Richings is clad in leather from neck to toe, tight, soft leather, knee-high boots, a long jacket in the style of... Dean has no idea. 18th century, maybe? Death looks lean and elegant, from the black gloves to the high collar, and Dean wants nothing more than to sink to the floor, beg for permission to touch. But there's no room for that in the limo, and besides, Dean is under Death's command now. The thin leather leash and the tight, soft collar remind him of that. It's all he's wearing, the leash and a pair of heavy boots. There can be no doubt that he is Lord Richings' sub.

"You are shivering." Death's voice is shattering the silence. "Boy?"

Dean turns his head. He needs to get into the headspace. He is Death's boy now, and he must address him as M'Lord or Master. They have had no time to get to know each other, briefing and planning taking up all of their day. They have discussed limits briefly, and Dean hopes it's enough. Dean is glad it has been enough to make him see that Death really knows what he's doing. For some odd reason, Dean is both scared of, yet trusts Death. "I'm sorry, Master. I'm not cold. I'm fine."

"You use that expression far too often," Death says. "Move over here." He pats at the seat. 

Dean scoots over, clumsy, and sits next to Death, close enough to feel the warmth of his body. He makes a content little sound, allowing himself to fall into the safety of being owned and care for, at least for a few more minutes, before they go inside. 

"Kiss me," Death demands, luring Dean closer with the a curl of a finger. "Show me how much you want it." Death's eyes are burning hot, lust and need flaring in them. Dean is sure Death reads him too well, knows how much Dean has missed it, not just the act of submission, but the belonging, being owned by a Dom who aims to fulfill his every need, all of his wishes. Alastair never did that for him, but Death... Dean thinks that with Death it would be different. Very different. 

Dean obeys happily. He gets up on his knees, out of practice, sliding up against dark leather and lean limbs, breathing in as he nuzzles Death's neck, his lips pressing a trace of little light kisses over Death's cheek to his mouth. Tryingly, Dean kisses the corner of Death's mouth, one kiss, then another, before he presses his lips to Death's narrow mouth, the tip of his tongue tickling Death's upper lip. 

Dean makes a small cry as Death gets a hold of his hair, forcing him to hold still. Dean's scalp tickles with pain, but his mouth is filled with pleasure as Death presses his tongue inside, demanding Dean's cooperation. Dean moans wantonly, shivering from need, need for more kissing, for more pain, for everything Death is giving him. It's too easy to forget they are here for a reason, but Dean puts the thoughts of the murderer aside and climbs into Death's lap, hands on his chest, taking anything he can get while he can.

"Enough, you eager little thing," Death says, no anger in his voice. "You'll get what you need later."

"If only."

It earns him a smack on the left ass cheek, and this time Death glares at him. "More from you, and I'll make you regret your rude comments, Dean. Do you understand?"

Dean hides a smile. "Yes, Master."

"And don't try you can fool me. You are far too chipper, boy."

"I'll do better, M'Lord, at your hand."

Death laughs. "You'll never learn."

"Probably not, Master."

The limo turns right, down a slope to what seems to be a parking area. The huge car comes to a halt and Dean looks outside. They are parked in front of a set of heavy iron gates. The chauffeur gets out and opens the door for them. Death acknowledges the effort with a nod. He gets out, pulling Dean's leash. "You may walk, boy."

Dean's grateful. It'd be uncomfortable to say the least, being on all fours on the concrete. "Thank you, Master."

"So you are able to behave. Good." Death tugs again, and Dean follows, his boots thudding loudly, the sound echoing against the naked walls. "Put your hands behind your back, eyes averted. Speak only when spoken to. Be respectful. You might avoid severe punishment."

"Yes, Master." Dean forces himself into the mindset. He is nothing but a thing for Death to play with, a toy for his master's pleasure. His master demands of him that he is quiet and alert, seeing everything, hearing everything while he gives himself up to pleasure, by his mere submission turning into Death's property, a plaything that is not to be regarded or seen or wanted by anybody else. Dean can do that. If only it didn't arouse him so much. It's a knife's edge, the balance between submission and mortal danger: he can't not submit and he can't ignore that they are here to catch a murderer. It's like being suspended, his body hovering between heaven and hell, between pain and pleasure. Fucking danger-kink. At least Dean knows he has it, and he's not willing to take it too far. He likes how his need for danger pushes him to the limit, but he must be careful not to let the kink throw him into a situation that has dire and fatal consequences. That's why he needs someone like... someone like Death to keep him in line, to provide what _he_ needs, still keeping him in line, safe. Yeah, it's not what Dean wants, mixing murder and pleasure, not when it's as messed up as this. He still can't help it, the entire situation makes him hard. 

Doors open for them as they walk by. Dean thinks it's some kind of angelic mojo at work; the club is more secure than a prison, Dean knows that by now, after going through the security measures, the entire floor plan and every fucking member of the fucking club. 

Something hits him. He hasn't even considered it, only assumed. "Master," he says as they walk into a corridor that looks like something out of a Victorian brothel. "Please?"

Death stops without turning to look at him. "You are aware of the consequences of disobeying me?"

"Yes, Master. Only I have a question."

Slowly Death turns around. "If it happens again, I will gag you. And if I gag you, I will punish you for bereaving me of the beautiful sound of your cries."

"It won't, Master, I swear." Dean wants to fall on his knees, begging his master to forgive him. Only he needs to whisper it in Death's ear so that nobody hears. "May I approach?"

Death looks tired. "I regret the day I accepted to take you in, boy. You are taxing, obstinate and impossible to teach. Approach."

"Thank you," Dean says, relived and sort of proud that he is able to tease Death into doing delightfully dirty things to him at some point. If they weren't in this situation, Dean knows he'd get off hard on driving Death to his limit. He takes a step and whispers in Death's ear. "They never told me what you are." Dean has heard a lot about the legendary Lord Richings, but no one has ever mentioned what he was. Is. Angel, demon? Human?" Dean's obviously human, but Death... Dean can't feel it.

Death pulls back and assesses Dean for a second before he puts a bony hand on Dean's chest, right over his heart. "I am _Death_ ," Death whispers, his breath ghosting hotly over Dean's skin. "A reaper. The _first_ reaper." 

Dean gasps, staring at Death with a mixture of fear and wonder. His danger-kink is flaring like somebody had thrown gasoline on it.

He is fucking with Death? For real?

Oh, that is _awesome_! 

Death closes his eyes and sighs. Then he turns around, walking away. Dean stands there, stunned, until the leash tightens and he is pulled with Death into the noise of the club.

Dean's dick is so hard it makes it painful to walk.

*

The music is loud and the lights low. There are candles all over, and although the club is called Heaven and Hell, Dean's fairly sure which domain inspired the interior designer. Everything is quality, granite, leather, heavy iron, but damn, Dean has seen similar places in Hell. With more blood and stray intestines, yet very similar. The difference here is that pain is dealt only to those who want it. Subs such as himself. Angel or demon, human or vampire, it doesn't matter. Dean looks to the wall where an older Dom has pinned a very young angel to the wall, the huge wings tied up and chained, his dick in a cage. The sub is writhing, begging and crying under the Dom's whip, but his dick is full and hard, bobbing with each lash of the heavy whip.

The Dom is a bald guy with a pouch, but he handles the whip well, Dean can see it. What the sub sees in him is a good question, but there is no doubt there's a true connection because the older guy puts the whip down, pressing a gentle kiss to his young boy's cheek and wipes his tears away, whispering to him softly. The sub nods and smiles, following his master with dazed eyes as the guy walks away from him. Dean watches the Dom approach Death, bald head bent in pretend submission as not to give them away. Dean is sure he's seen the man before, but can't remember where.

"Lord Richings, what a pleasure to see you back," Bald Guy gushes. "And with a new boy. He's..." Bald Guy assesses Dean rudely.

"Mine," Death says curtly, clearly annoyed. "Give my regards to Michael," he says. "And to your boy as well. Samandriel is in good hands with you."

"I do my best," Bald Guy says, looking at the tied-up sub with something akin to adoration. "He wasn't treated too well by his former mistress."

"I am well aware," Death says. "I am confident that you will see to it that it never happens again, Zachariah."

The arrogance slides off Zachariah. "As long as he'll have me, I'll protect him with my life." There's a gentle smile on his lips as he turns and looks at the angel he strung up on the wall.

 _No wonder_ , Dean thinks. The Zachariah dude is not exactly sex on legs, so there is probably something else to him that a young angel likes, but Dean can't for the hell of it see what it could possibly be.

Death nods again and pulls Dean with him further into the club. "Zachariah is the President's secretary, if you remember," Death says, barely loud enough to be heard through the music. "He worships the ground Samandriel walks upon, and no matter his... unpleasant demeanor, he seems to take good care of his sub. They married last year."

Dean doesn't reply, but he recalls now where he's seen Zachariah before: clad in a suit, a shadow behind the President, ready to do his bidding.

A woman in a black dress, balancing on a pair of Louboutins of astronomical height, approaches them. "Lord Richings," she purrs, putting a hand on Death's arm.

Dean wants to step back, but Death is faster.

"Mine," he says coldly and glares at the woman's hand with a look that could temp as a freezer.

"It has been too long." The woman removes her hand, as if the glare has a physical effect on her. "Are you going to scene tonight? I wouldn't mind see you give your boy there what he deserves." She huffs and stares at Dean, assessing his body. "It's Alastair's sub?"

"As I told you a second a go, he is _my_ sub, and he has a name." Death is not happy with the present company, Dean excluded. 

Dean can see Death's eyes narrow, a clear sign he's not pleased. Dean can see why. The woman is obnoxious and rude.

She realizes that Dean is watching her. "He looks at me.... how dare he look at me? You should punish such a disrespectful submissive."

Dean doesn't care; no one but his master is commanding him. He keeps looking at her, stubbornly sending her a cold glare, refusing to back off.

Death will have none of it. "Because my sub answers only to me, Madam, and _no one_ rewards or punishes him but I. Contrary to some, I provide for my boy what he needs." Death nods graciously, like he is dismissing a servant. "Good evening, Mistress Naomi."

This time Dean is prepared and he follows Death, two steps behind him, before the leash tightens. Death stops at a small area, two low leather couches and a low table and nothing more. A waiter is standing there, a tray with some expensive, imported tap water in a fancy bottle ready. He bows and waits until Death sits down before he serves. Dean cleverly keeps standing since Death hasn't told him otherwise. He studies the surroundings, every velvet-hung nook and cranny, every entrance, every club member that passes him by, no matter state of undress.

Death has barely been sitting down for half a minute before a man comes up to him, maybe another ass-licking sycophant out to suck up to the honorable Lord Richings. Odd how all these powerful people can't seem to ignore a title that has no meaning in this country. Or maybe it's just that Death is who he is: were he stripped of money and title, he would still be an incredibly powerful creature. Dean smiles at the thought. He likes that, how Death is mortal danger in one unassuming package, a lean killing machine underneath the nice facade of an English nobleman. 

"Cousin!" The man shakes hands with Death, obviously pleased to see him.

This time Death likes the person, no doubt about it. He smiles. He has a nice smile, Dean thinks.

"Chuck. Good to see you. Did you bring Mistress Magda?"

"It's Magda who brings me," Chuck says, "not the other way around. But not tonight, no. She's at her sisters, neglecting her duties as my owner and mistress." Chuck laughs, like this Magda never really neglects anything.

"I am sure she will make it up to you," Death comments, like he really knows Chuck and his Mistress very well.

"Are you scening tonight?" Chuck nods at Dean, smiling at him as well before he turns his attention back to Death. "Your sub is beautiful. I'm sure the masters and mistresses here would like to watch you take him. And President Michael is here, too, have you seen? It'll be a show to remember. He inquired about your performance."

Death stands. "Chuck is the owner and founder of Heaven and Hell. And my cousin," he tells Dean.

Dean is not surprised. He had been warned this would happen, that someone would ask Death to perform with his sub. "Yes, Master." Dean stays in the mindset, not to mention that it's a place he really likes to stay, under the command of a strict master.

"If you are up to it, boy?" Death looks at him pointedly, signalling that this is his chance to pass.

"Yes, Master. Dean looks down at his own cock that has been half mast since Death started dragging him around on a leash. "I'm up, or I will be as soon as you start playing with me."

Death sighs and rolls his eyes before he swats Dean's butt once, twice. Dean yelps. "Brat," Death lets out, annoyed tone, but with a smile in his eyes. "What am I to do with you?"

*

As it is, Death has very interesting ideas about what to do with Dean. Although they both know that Death can't take Dean so far out that he loses his ability to observe the assembled subs and doms, among them perhaps a murderer, Death has interesting ideas. Some of them are placed on a small table next to him, tools of the trade, each of them representing pain or pleasure, or both. Some Dean regard with dread, some with anticipation, but none of them with disgust. Death keeps strictly within the hard limits that Dean has set.

Loosely tied to the heavy chains of a leather sling, Death is spreading Dean's legs, raising them up and wide apart, keeping them there with hooks under the back of his knees. Dean is tied down efficiently, but in a manner that lets him get free in seconds. Thus exposed to the audience, Dean lies on his back, waiting for Death's next move, trying not to get under the alluring spell of a full submission. It's a balance, all right, a knife's edge. He needs to get under to endure the pain, and he needs to stay alert, watching the people watching him. That in itself represent restraints that Dean has never tried before, and even that is a balance: he hates it and loves it, that he can neither give himself up, nor not, not able to determine whether the situation enhances the scene or not. 

What the setup does to his libido is... interesting. He's achingly hard, and all Death has done is to tie him up. Dean can't wait for Death to work him over with flogger and clamps.

Death checks the ties, walking around the sling, checking that everything is to his liking. And Dean's.

Dean sighs. He can see it in every little move, the looks Death sends him, all of it meant to reassure Dean that Death has him and that he needs only to express his discontent to be released. Death is not good, he is _perfect_. God, Dean has longed for this, for a master who'll take care of him even half as well as Death does. Dean's sighs turn into moans as Death's leather-clad fingers skim down his naked skin, over nipples, lightly over his belly, down to his cock that gets only a feather-light touch before Death strokes Dean's spread thighs, back to his balls. 

The leather is warm and soft as Death closes a hand around them. He pulls lightly, squeezing them as to assess how much Dean can take.

The pain is merely pleasant. "More," Dean begs. "Make me feel it."

"Quiet, boy," Death commands. He slaps Dean's cock hard twice, making Dean whine and squirm. Dean's erection goes down a bit, not for the lack of arousal, though. 

"Hm," Death muses. "Maybe we should use the opportunity, since you are not fully hard?"

Dean moans again. He cannot hold back the sound, fueled by the thought of what Death plans to do with him. Dean thinks he knows. It was on the top of his list after all. "Anything, Master."

Death reaches for something on the table. He clicks open a bottle, oiling it up. As he returns to Dean, there's a thin rod in his hand, glistening from oil.

"Oh, _fuck_ ," Dean breathes, knowing that he's not supposed to speak unless Death asks him a question. He gasps for air, unable to breathe for seconds; the rush of intense arousal is almost too much. Another slap to his cock makes him focus again, pulling him back from the brink.

"Attention, Dean," Death demands. Dean knows what he means. He can't sink too deep into pleasure, but how the hell is supposed not to do that when Death is already doing things to him that are exactly what Dean wants. 

Lean fingers close around his cock, squeezing hard enough to get his erection down again. Dean closes his eyes. He knows what is about to come.

"Look at me, boy." There's another squeeze and Dean does what he's told.

"Yes, Master."

Dean watches in anticipation as Death holds his dick, positioning it, so that he can slide the thin rod in.

Needing everything he has to hold still, Dean lets out a deep moan, and another, until he is whimpering and panting, the rod slowly worked into his dick, a thin line of icy pleasure and pain that fills not only his dick but his entire body with the perfect sensations. He manages to get his breathing under control, keeping still, despite wanting to cry out and beg for Death to hurt him more, to take him, anything. When he's calm again the delightful torture starts all over, the rod pushed in and out again and again, until Dean is a sobbing mess, a slide of oil and steel into his dick. 

Then it stops, just as a abruptly as it began. "Good boy," Death praises, "taking it so good."

There's applause. Oh, the audience. Dean had forgotten. He doesn't try to look at them, he looks only at Death. 

Their eyes meet and Dean nods. He can take more, much more. Keeping alert, though, might not be that easy.

Death bends down and presses a kiss to Dean's mouth. Dean surrenders willingly and lets Death take his mouth. It's so good, the sweet tenderness of the deep kiss right after the pain-pleasure of the rod. "Very good, Dean," Death whispers. "I am very pleased with you."

Dean feels warm and happy by his master's praise. This is what he wants so badly, everything that Death gives him. "Please," he says, not sure what he begs for, as long as it's more.

Death laughs softly. "I hadn't thought you'd be so delightfully wanton," he admits, kissing Dean again before he straightens. 

Death unbuttons the tight leather coat, his eyes on Dean. Underneath it, Death wears more leather, thin and soft, long sleeves and a high collar, tight-fitting and sleek. Death turns. The back of the leather top is open, like for... Oh.

Dean moans again, breathless as Death unfolds his wings, not black, but darker, like the absence of color, feathers like shadows, frayed and moving like smoke in the wind. Death might not be pretty, but his wings are spectacular. 

Death had said he was a reaper, but there is more to it. "Angel?" Dean manages to get out, the only word left in the ruins of a much longer question.

"Angel," Death confirms. "Angel of Death."

"Oh, _yes_ ," Dean sighs, the sound drawn out into yet another moan of pleasure and arousal. Nothing could... _no one_ could personify his kink better than Death. Fuck, it's perfection!

It turns out that Dean moaned in pleasure far too soon. Death goes to work on his body, shrouding them both in the wide expanse of his wings, the shadow feathers sliding over Dean's body, every inch of it, over him, inside him. The feathers are silk and barbed wire, fur and nails. Every touch is pain and pleasure, sometimes spiking into hard pain, at other times turning velvet-soft and gentle. Dean is done for. He tries to hang on to his sanity, to his abilities as an agent, but he is too far gone. All he can do is try, and god, he tries, only to have his determination ripped apart, over and over and over until he is sobbing for release, entirely lost to Death's masterful dominance of his mind and body.

And release comes with the slick, slow touch of fingers in his ass, feathers still prickling at his skin as Death opens him. "Yes, fuck me, please," Dean begs over and over, to at least have something to hang on to. He sobs with relief when Death pushes into him, the feeling of a cock in his ass strangely grounding. It lasts exactly until Death starts fucking him in earnest; sure, deep strokes, hitting all the right places, the spice of pain adding to Dean's pleasure.

"I'm going to come in you, boy. Do you want that?"

"Yes, yes, yes," Dean hisses, on the verge of coming too. "Yes, God, please, fill me, want you, fuck me full," he babbles, so hooked on being filled with Death's come, being marked with it, Death's boy, his property, his to keep and care for and love. There are shadowy feathers stroking his cock, the rod pulled out of it, and the tip of a feather in, feeling like smooth cuts and raw pleasure. Death's hand is around Dean's throat, squeezing just _enough_ , and the pleasure hits him in the gut, It is too much, too much pleasure. Dean shouts out his orgasm, overwhelmed by the strength of it.

"Good boy," Death moans and finally he, too, surrenders to their shared pleasure, his strict face slack from the orgasm that takes him under. "Perfect, good boy, my obedient boy," Death murmurs, his breathing ragged and out of control for the first time since he touched Dean for the first time. His leather-clad torso is pressed against Dean's aching chest, slow, gentle kisses soothing the sore skin. 

Dean sighs deeply, content and satisfied, exhausted. From under heavy lids he stares into the crowd without really seeing, the movements and the dark corners a blur of shadows and lights. Then there's a flash of clear, golden light, one that is suddenly dimmed. Dean struggles to understand the significance of it, he knows there is one.

A halo. Out in the open.

The killer! He's here! 

"Death! Colt," Dean moans, pushing to get up and out of the sling, pulling at the ties, utterly against stopping what they are doing; he has never in his life had better. But there's an angel's life at stake. "It's Naomi. Samandriel. Quick." Dean is moving sluggishly, limbs heavy with pleasure, still.

Death is as swift and sudden as death can be. In a second he sees what Dean has seen, Naomi looming over Samandriel's slumping body, his halo a shining band around his neck, distorted and tight, hands flailing desperately to get it off. Dean disentangles himself of ropes and sling. Death grabs his cane, pulling something from it. A blade.

"Everybody down!" Death shouts. "AIA!" Then something sharp and deadly cuts through the room, striking true. A cry, Naomi's cry. 

Dean is up and at Samandriel's side at the same time as Zachariah, the guy's face livid and angry at the same time, a bleeding wound at his side where Naomi must have stabbed him. "Wait," Dean demands, shoving Naomi's body off Samandriel's lifeless one. He looks around for something to use on the tight halo. Coldly he pulls Death's blade from Naomi's bleeding shoulder, ignoring her wail. Death can deal with her. 

"Careful," Zachariah demands, pressing a hand to his own side. "If you cut it straight, I might be able to heal it. Please. For Samandriel's sake. He can't lose his halo to her too. Please!"

Dean nods. Zachariah might be arrogant and ugly, but he truly cares about his boy. So Dean does what he's told, carefully cutting the halo with the sharp tip of the short rapier. Dean drops the halo, ready to do CPR, but Zachariah will have none of it. Cradling Samandriel in his arms, he breathes life back into him, the man relaxing visibly as the boy takes a few coughing breaths, opening his eyes.

"Na-omi," Samandriel attempts, voice hoarse and broken. 

"We got her," Dean tells him. "A doctor will be here right away to check on you, just... don't get up, okay?"

With Samandriel resting safely in Zachariah's arms, Dean turns his attention to Naomi, who, one wing broken, lies on the floor, flapping weakly in a powerless attempt to get away. It's not just the wound. Death stands over her, one foot on her sound wing, effectively preventing her from getting up from the floor. 

"Good job," Dean says. Death looks unflappable as usual, but Dean thinks he sees the trace of a satisfied and smug smile on his face. He suspects there's a similar one on his own.

Death holds up the small communication device he's been hiding in his pants. "Crowley's waiting in the parking lot. He's sending in a doctor for Samandriel. Discretion and all that. There's a transport ready for this..." Death points downwards, indicating the wounded murderer. 

Dean nods. The doctors are going to patch Naomi up before they can interrogate her, and Samandriel needs to be seen by a specialist right away, get any help he needs before they can talk to him. It's a job well done; there will be no more murders, no angels dying at Naomi's hand. Dean doesn't know what drove her, but maybe jealousy, a distorted need for power over Samandriel and the likes of him, young subs in need of care. It's what they hadn't seen, hadn't been able to discover: the victims might all have been Naomis subs at some point. They'll find out soon enough; Naomi's the type to talk and brag, showing off her own perceived perfection. Dean doesn't look forward to it.

Death speaks into the comm for a few seconds. "Let's move her," he tells Dean. "The sooner we get out, the sooner we can get some rest."

Ignoring that he's still naked, Dean helps Death drag Naomi from the floor. A set of wing manacles, usually used for more pleasurable tasks is turned into handy wing cuffs, just in case she's going to try her luck.

"All right," Dean says, "let's bag this. I guess Crowley will have a short debriefing before tomorrow's interrogations. Let's get it over with so we can get home."

"Hmpf," Death lets out, oddly not as satisfied with that scenario as Dean. "Getting home isn't exactly what I was thinking of."

*

The debriefing is blessedly short, so short that Dean hasn't cared to get dressed, all he's managed is to pull his black coat over his naked body. Anyway, Crowley and Death both have seen him naked, so why bother?

Dean pulls the coat tighter around his naked torso as he walks form the AIA office to his car. He's almost giddy with triumph, glad they caught Naomi red-handed, before she killed yet another young angel. Still, there's this nagging feeling that something isn't done, that he left something unfinished. He shudders as the coarse fabric brushes over one of his sore nipples. Yeah, that was something that got interrupted, all right, but seeing that they were there to catch a killer, Dean can't really complain. Another day, another situation, Dean would have liked to finish what they had started, Death and he. One scene or a couple, anything Death would have agreed to. Dean lets himself play with the idea that Lord Richings could've been more. A lover. Death had been everything he'd ever dreamed of in a Dom, and the Lord Richings had been everything Dean had dreamed of in a lover. Kind, considerate on one hand, and cruel and unrelenting on another.

It obviously wasn't meant to be. Fuck it, he had to forget about it; the sooner, the better. No way Lord Richings would have anything more to do with Dean. It had been business, and only that. Dean sighs deeply and start swalking across the parking lot to the Impala. He stops once, shaking his head. Maybe he could get Crowley to give him something, an email, or a phone number. Just so that they could... debrief. In private. 

"Idiot," Dean tells himself out loud. There is a distinct tone of regret to it. "You want more."

He does. He'd never met a Dom like Death, and it had been incredible.

He stops next to his car, reaching for the keys to the Impala, rummaging around in the deep pocket of his coat. But a movement at the corner of his eye, nothing more than a change of light, a shadow, makes him look up. "What the-"

"I wasn't done with you," Death says, stepping out into the light. He is dangling a leash in one hand. "Far from. You are a very bad and unruly boy. Now tell me, Dean. What am I supposed to do with you?"

Dean swallows, feeling his cock fattening so fast it hurts. That Death wants more, too, is like a rush, anticipation and arousal mixing, making Dean shiver from lust. "I— erm. You could put that on me." He nods in the direction of the leash. "Make me obey. Punish me."

"And you think that's enough? A leash. One session?" Death smiles, a cruel smile. "I think I'm going to take my time with you, boy. A long time. We begin now. Right here, right now. Take off your coat and get on your knees."

Dean makes a needy moan. Fuck, yes. Even here, out in the open where every curious walker out late might see, Dean wants to give Death what he wants. So Dean shrugs off his coat and puts it on the ground. He lowers his gaze and sinks down in front of Death, awaiting his master's command. He puts his arms behind his back, not moving as Death attaches the leash to the collar he is still wearing. Still, Dean cannot keep himself from asking. "How long?" he inquires hopefully. "How long are you going to keep me?"

"As I have pointed out several times," Death says, "you are a very bad boy in need of proper guidance. It could take a while. Months. Years, even. If you are willing to commit yourself into my care for such a long time, then I will dedicate my time to teach you."

"Yes!" Dean reins himself in, trying to behave like a proper sub, one his master will be proud of. "Yes, M'Lord. Anything you want."

There's a rustle, smooth and soft, of leather being pushed aside. Death puts a finger under Dean's chin, tilting his head back. Dean stares right at Death's freed cock, fat and hard. He licks his lips, eager to get his mouth on it. Death smiles that tight smile, cruel and expectant. "Satisfy me, boy. Now. And when you have performed to my satisfaction, you will drive me to my house, and we shall discuss your future at length."

Dean bites his lip to hide the triumphant smile. It seems like Death is exactly as interested as Dean is, pursuing a future. "Yes, please, M'Lord," Dean says happily and swallows Death's length to the hilt.


End file.
